A few years ago I went to Wisconsin with my mother to visit her roots. We went to Lake Geneva, her birthplace, and saw the house where she was raised. As she stood in the front yard, I videotaped her as she reminisced about living there, her stories sprinkled with recollections of life with her father. She told me about how he would rake the leaves up in the yard and call her so she could come jump in them, after which he would rake them again, and let her jump again, as often as she wanted. Mother told me that sometimes he would rake the leaves into long lines, forming rooms so that she could play house in them. We stood on the sandy shore of the lake and mother told of how she and her dad would stand there watching a storm come in over the water. Then just before it got to shore he would grab her hand and they would run as fast as they could back to their house, and collapse on the front porch just before the rain got to them, laughing hard all the while.

My mother's father, Will Tuchlinsky, owned a store in town which he lost during the depression. He also was a calligrapher and painted signs for businesses. And he was a singer, with a marvelous baritone voice. He sang for the love of singing, but also was able to supplement his income by employment as a soloist at a local church. In fact, he was even singing when he died. Puppa, as his grandchildren called him, was working on an assembly line when he died of coronary thrombosis. He was singing "I'll Be Seeing You" as he fell to the ground.

I never knew Puppa. He died several years before I was born. But I have always felt a connection to him, not only because of the shared interests of music and calligraphy, but also because I understand our temperaments are similar.

That trip I took to Wisconsin with my mother is a happy memory for me, one which I will treasure forever. And when I view the videotape of our trip I am reminded once more of the eternal nature of families, and the joy of knowing just a little more about those who preceded me. May we each rejoice in those who came before, and perhaps by doing so gain insight into ourselves and those who will follow in our footsteps.